


Feather line

by lindt_barton



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, Aziraphale's Bookshop, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grooming, Late Night Conversations, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Praise Kink, Tenderness, The Blitz, Wing Kink, Wingfic, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 02:21:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19241875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindt_barton/pseuds/lindt_barton
Summary: That Night, after Crowley drives Aziraphale home from a blown up church, Aziraphale flexes his shoulders and says, "My feathers are horribly ruffled from all that kerfuffle," and catches Crowley's eye over the rim of his teacup.





	Feather line

**Author's Note:**

> I've quarantined this from [the rest of my drabbles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19153066) on account of its gratuity...

That night.

That night.

That night Aziraphale stands in a doorway with the weight of five rare books in his hand and in his heart. He looks back over his shoulder into the blackout darkness, to the figure picked out in faint moonlight, the eyes glinting sodium gold. He can't move forwards and he can't move back and his body is made of iron filings all pointing in the same direction. He can feel his own breath condense and evaporate from his lips in waves of static. "Nightcap?" he says. He sounds breathless.

Crowley smiles slow, "My pleasure." Aziraphale's eyes flicker down for a moment, and so Crowley's do in return. Aziraphale stands back, and Crowley steps past, very close, and catches his eye, still with that smile.

Crowley wanders through the labyrinthine store, still lit by oil lamps, poking books and piles of miscellanea as he strolls. It's been a while. "You've barely changed."

Aziraphale busies himself digging out the two cleanest drink receptacles he can find (a dusty tumbler, and a slightly stained teacup) and the black-market scotch hidden inside his least favourite copy of Ayn Rand. Ironically it is now his favourite copy.

He pours them both a couple of fingers and then plops into his favourite tall backed chair. Now quite worn, it must be some years from its last miraculous reparation. Crowley sprawls on his favourite stool, legs pointing in a number of different directions. They both take a sip. Aziraphale flexes his shoulders, says, "My feathers are horribly ruffled from all that kerfuffle," and catches Crowley's eye over the rim of his teacup.

Crowley draws little circles in the dust on the table top with his fingertips. "I could always," he quirks a brow, "take a look at them..?"

Aziraphale's face twists up, disgust and incredulity, "Please, I couldn't possibly be seen to be groomed by a-" his voice drops, " _demon._ "

Crowley rolls his eyes, "Well then why did you ask?"

"I didn't ask!"

Crowley scoffs and then after a sullen pause, "Maybe it's time we reinstated The Arrangement." The mischief flashes back into his eyes, "You know," he leans forward over the table in waves like the snake he is. "I scratch your back. You scratch mine." Speaks low like black treacle, "No one needs to know." Still with that smile.

Not for the first time, Aziraphale is struck with a sudden sympathy for Eve. Perhaps this is why he gave her his sword.

Crowley sidles out from behind the table, tumbler sloshing in one hand, and saunters towards Aziraphale. Around the back of Aziraphale's chair, trailing a finger along the top of it. Aziraphale leans forwards to glare back suspiciously at Crowley. Which is a mistake. Crowley drops a finger between Aziraphale's shoulder and plucks one of his feathers out of the aether. Aziraphale swallows. Crowley smooths the filaments back together, oh so nonchalantly. They catch each other's eyes and then Aziraphale daren't look back. Crowley leans low almost to Aziraphale's ear, "Let me."

Crowley did save his body.

And his books.

Aziraphale.

Aziraphale leans forward, crosses his arms on the coffee table and sets his chin on top of them, delicately stretches his wings out over the arms of the chair and down onto the floor on either side of him. And sighs.

All of Crowley's affectation of sin and temptation fall away. He just sits at Aziraphale's feet, and with quiet concentration he begins to work through Aziraphale's feathers.

Aziraphale soon finds himself happily slumped across the top of the table and across the floor, Crowley buried within his left flights. "You're right these are a mess," he says, picking a particularly uncomfortable lump of church brick from deep within Aziraphale's feathers, and flicking it away into a puff of hellfire.

Aziraphale hums happily, mumbles through his shirt sleeves, "A little to the right, Crowley."

Crowley's fingers creep through his feathers, daring to graze the skin, just a little. And a little to the right Aziraphale says, "Yes. Right there," and Crowley digs his fingers in. Works knots out of the muscles. Ruffles the feathers, just so, just how he knows feels- "Ah, perfect, Crowley." Something about that gives Crowley's fingers pause, until Aziraphale grumbles, and they jump back into motion.

They replay that dance until Aziraphale finds himself slumped happily across the table and the floor and around Crowley - buried within his left flights - rather too content to bother talking anymore. He only realises he'd dozed off in a warm haze when Crowley's standing stirs him, just long enough to feel the graze of fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck as a shadow passes over him. Aziraphale shifts to follow him, tries to open his eyes only managing to catch a flash of limbs settling into his other wing. He hums, and the shadow grumbles back, "Go back to sleep, Angel," not without affection. He slips back into sleep as soon as he feels the relief of Crowley beginning to groom fresh feathers.

***

Aziraphale snaps upright, a blanket falling from his shoulders, to the sound of the front door opening. Someone trying to be quiet, and failing. Quite unlike himself he manages to leap from his chair fast enough to catch Crowley only halfway out of the door.

"Crowley! Where are you sneaking off to?"

Crowley freezes, vaguely guilty. He looks back at Aziraphale, shrugs with one shoulder, his hat in the other, "The usual. Smokey bars, dark alleys." Aziraphale passes him an admonishing frown and he adds, "Letting you sleep."

"Come back inside."

The room rests for a beat whilst they stare each other out. Crowley shuts the door behind himself. He walks almost reluctantly, in front of Aziraphale, back through the labyrinth to their table. The oil lamps haven't even burnt down.

Aziraphale had expected him to sit in the comfy chair as he had been, but Crowley drags his own stool to its side, and perches with his elbows leant on the coffee table. He doesn't look entirely comfortable. Not a fan of the floor, Aziraphale sits in his chair anyway, about to pull Crowley's wings out of the aether as he had for him, when Crowley does it himself.

Crowley's wings are smaller and finer than his own. Where he could lay his across the floor, Crowley's only just reach it. Although a little of that is due to the extra inches on Crowley's body. The feathers too, aren't just black as Aziraphale's are white, but vary from dark speckled brown to deep iridescent green. It's quite something to see up close.

Aziraphale takes them in his hands, stretches Crowley's wings out from the hunch he had held them in, looks them up and down, deciding how to start. And then he tuts, "Crowley, your feathers are bone dry." Despite the hair on his human head being perfectly coifed, his wings have been neglected. "How long have they been like this?" Crowley's shoulders shift in an unconscious, adolescent shrug. "You should have gotten-"

Crowley snaps, "I'm a _demon_. They're not supposed to be _pretty_." His voice sounds a little bit- a little bit broken.

Aziraphale straightens. "Don't tell me your side don't-" He stops himself. Just the thought of it. Of course.

And if demons aren't supposed to- Well he shouldn't have either. Aziraphale clears his throat, "Anyway, I'll need to dig out my feather oil." He stands, "Don't try to run away again."

Crowley doesn't say a thing as he leaves, or returns. He stays hunched, facing away from Aziraphale.

Aziraphale sits, and drips oil on his fingers. He starts from the top, smoothing oil onto the barbs of each feather, from base to tip. He shakes his head; it might take the rest of the bottle.

But slowly, as Aziraphale works, Crowley does relax, letting his head droop, his breaths coming slow and deep. And when Aziraphale stops to lay a heavy hand on his shoulder until Crowley finally rests his head down on the table, Aziraphale gives him a little, _Good_ , wing scratch. Crowley shivers. His eyes flicker shut and all his feathers stand on end. After that Aziraphale is sure to do it again each time Crowley lets him reposition his wings. Each time melting him ever closer to the floor.

Aziraphale takes the opportunity to watch his face, now that it isn't pointedly turned away from him. Crowley's eyes are closed, mouth half open, face slack with bliss. Aziraphale suspects that with him this pliant, he could twist Crowley's shoulder _just so_ and he would roll over, soft side up, under his hands. The light of the oil lamps glints off his cheekbone, wet, where a tear had run down.

Aziraphale twists his shoulder. Crowley rises, wakes, under Aziraphale's hand, and turns towards him. Aziraphale takes Crowley's face in his hands, one thumb on that cheekbone, and pulls him to his lips. Kisses him slow and deliberate, thorough like grooming. Crowley grips the edge of the table with one hand, Aziraphale's shirt with the other. Satisfied for a moment, Aziraphale pulls away to look him in the eyes, to murmur, "Don't sneak away from me, Crowley." He nods, infinitesimally, and Aziraphale pulls him back again.

When the sun rises, they fall apart from each other and daren't look back. That morning Crowley starts his own plan to get Holy water, and Aziraphale decides to give it to him anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> [if you wanna see the next time they kiss ;)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19153066/chapters/45628693)


End file.
